


The Hardest Truth

by Twisted_Mind



Series: Peter Hale, R.A. [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Peter Hale, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Play, Blackmail, Bondage, Coercion, College Student Stiles Stilinski, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Extremely Dubious Consent, Face-Fucking, Forced Orgasm, Gags, Knotting, M/M, Manipulation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Nurse Peter Hale, Object Insertion, Omega Sheriff Stilinski, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Oral Knotting, Oral Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reproductive health, Rough Oral Sex, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-28 06:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30135501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: He can let Peter take care of him eleven or twelve more times, and figure out what he wants once he’s back home and away from Peter and everything at Berkeley that made him necessary.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Peter Hale, R.A. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1413529
Comments: 29
Kudos: 143





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies, and happy Friday! This week, you're getting the first half of the third--and final!--story in this series. It feels pretty good to have this one done and ready to share. Second half is done and will post next week. 
> 
> Big thanks, as always, to Bunnywest and DiscontentedWinter for enabling this filth. And, y'know, **important bit of housekeeping, here** , this is a DEEP dive into the dumpster, okay? Dark fic is dark. If you need additional warnings, there are some at the end of the fic pertaining to pairings and sort-of drug use. So if either of those things are topics where you need the extra heads up, pop on down and check that out. 
> 
> As always: please take care of yourself, lovelies. Use the backspace button if you need it, avoid this fic if medical kink trash is not your thing, do what you need to, but _please_ do not make me turn on comment moderation.

Stiles tries to fight it, but apparently, he's overruled. He's had a documented adverse reaction to the synths, so no one wants him on them anymore. Peter won't prescribe, administer, or supervise him taking them, and after the meeting with Duke—long before this whole rejection mess—Stiles doubts any of the other R.A.s at the OS clinic will. He calls his gynaecologist, but apparently Peter's been having her copied on all his lab tests and reports, so she's no help either. 

Her exact words were, "Stiles, I've been telling you since you were fifteen that it was only a matter of time until you needed to switch primary management methods. It's nothing short of a miracle that it took this long for something like this to happen. Peter's an excellent R.A., with great credentials and a reputation for top-notch patient care. _Please_ , for your own sake, work with him and let him get you healthy enough that you can have more options in the future." 

He's not quite at the point where he's ready to call his dam and spill the beans, but it's a close thing. The fact that he only has to deal with Peter until the end of the semester before he's home for the summer and can work something out with his gyno is what he's clinging to. It's just a few more months, and Peter's as stuck with him as he is with Peter. 

He knows he can out-stubborn alphas. He's done it before. This won't be any different. 

***

The first step, Stiles realizes, is taking some control back of his so-called sessions with Peter. He might not have a say in whether or not he needs pheromone therapy, but Peter's been calling all the shots since day one, and that can stop right now. 

So at his next appointment, he says, “I don’t want to use a heat room for this.”

Peter raises an eyebrow at him. “It would be a lot more comfortable to do this there.”

That’s probably true, and Stiles definitely _wants_ to lie down and refuse to move until he stops feeling wobbly-limbed and nauseous, but he shakes his head, kicking off his shoes. His mind is made up, and he’s not giving in to any of Peter’s slick-tongued arguments now. “No. Let’s just get this over with, so I can get started on the paper for my philosophy class.”

“If you insist.”

And he does, peeling out of his jeans and boxers before bending over the exam table. It’s the exact same position he’d be in if he was getting an “administered dose”, and he doesn’t want to think too long or too hard about how much his healthcare has changed since he came to Berkeley. He doesn’t want to have to look at Peter, doesn’t want to feel the urge to touch or kiss, so face-down over the exam table it is. Quick, painless, and impersonal.

Except that of course Peter doesn’t get with the program, because why would he do something like that? “Have you self-pleasured in the last 24 hours?”

The question, more than the two gloved and lubed fingers that slip inside him, makes him grit his teeth. “Yep, so let’s get this show on the road.”

Peter hums, but doesn’t say anything—and doesn’t hurry up, as far as he can tell. Dude still spends what feels like forever opening him up and pressing against his g-spot, brushing teasing touches over his clit. Stiles clenches his fists and times his breaths, in 1-2-3-4, out 1-2-3-4 so he doesn’t lose control and give in, because this isn’t about orgasms and never has been.

(He ignores the little voice in the back of his head whispering _that’s not true, that’s never been true—your gyno and Melissa and your family doc back home have all told you differently_ )

He can’t help his gasp when Peter first breaches him, though. It’s nothing like his plug, with its tapered tip and familiar silicone—there’s no easy start, because Peter’s thick from root to tip, firmer than his plug and less forgiving, blood-hot and personal in a way silicone isn’t capable of. Peter’s knot isn’t already present, so he has to breathe and squirm through dozens of smooth thrusts that go deep and feel better than they have any right to before Peter presses in tight against his ass, sunk to the hilt and grinding as his knot slowly expands to tie them together. With his plug, he could, theoretically, get up leave as soon as he got the pheromones he needed—but with Peter, he’s literally stuck, resisting the urge to writhe on the end of the bastard’s knot as his traitorous pelvic floor muscles ripple and squeeze, milking the alpha for his come. 

Of course, Peter makes all his efforts completely pointless, sighing his name like a disappointed parent before sliding a hand under and around him. Stiles wishes he were surprised, but he can’t say he is—his deliberate attempts not to touch himself or jerk off in front of Peter have, historically, been treated as carte blanche for Peter to take care of it himself—so he grabs Peter’s wrist before those sneaky fingers reach his clit. “No.”

“No?” And fuck him, but he sounds amused. “Are you going to touch yourself, then, sweetheart? Make yourself come on my knot?”

Stiles shivers, hating that he’s so tempted to do exactly that. “N-no, don’t want to.”

Peter sighs, bending over and pressing his weight down against Stiles’s back to murmur against his neck. “It really is the quickest way to get through this part, pet. With the way you’re milking me, my knot won’t go down any time soon, and your hungry insides won’t ease off the pressure without some help. The muscle contractions of an orgasm will finish the milking process, draw my come up into your womb, where the pheromones will linger for a few days, and the relaxation after the fact will let my knot go down so we can untie.”

His lower back is starting to hurt, and part of him wants to agree, just to wrap this up as quickly as possible, but—“No.”

“No to what?”

“Don’t touch me,” Stiles rasps.

And, to Peter’s extremely underhanded credit, he doesn’t—he just braces one hand between Stiles’s shoulder blades and while the other grips a hip before rutting and grinding in a sinful rhythm that makes Stiles choke on air. He rocks back into it as best he can, heat building in his pelvis and licking up his spine as his world narrows down to the space inside him that Peter’s filling, to the need to come that builds too high and too fast for him to do anything about. It feels so good he hates it, but it’s not enough to tip him over.

He waits, but Peter’s rhythm doesn’t falter, and his hands don’t move from where they are, splayed across Stiles’s back and wrapped around one lean hip—so Stiles bites his lip until he tastes blood, and then slides a hand under himself. He barely has to touch his clit before he’s coming so hard spots dance in front of his eyes.

After, Peter holds still, smoothing a palm up and down his back, murmuring nonsense that should make his skin crawl, but doesn’t, because biology, probably. His legs are cramping and his lower back feels like he got walloped with a lacrosse stick by the time they untie and Peter pulls out, which is just insult to injury—the whole point of being bent over the exam table was to keep things fast and neat and impersonal, and nothing about this was any of those things. But the absolute worst part isn’t that he lost control of himself, panting and whining for a knot like an omega porn star in pretend-heat—the worst part is that he’s not as angry as he should be. He’s too high on Peter’s fucking pheromones, even though he should be mad as hell.

***

Stiles stares at the grades page of the student website. He can’t believe this. The first assignment of the new semester, and he somehow pulled a 95% on it? He wasn’t even putting in his best effort, because the assignment seemed like such a softball—plus, he didn’t want to throw the curve this early in the game. It was just. It was so _easy_.

He opens up his student email account in another tab. There must’ve been a mistake, a misunderstanding, it was for participation marks—something. He’ll ask the TA, and probably accidentally screw himself out of an A+, but at least he’ll know what the hell is going on.

***

He gets a phone call from OS, and Laura asks him if he wants to set-up a regular appointment with Peter every Friday afternoon, when the R.A. does his scheduled round of house calls. Dorm calls. Whatever.

Stiles doesn’t even consider it—“Thanks for offering, but I’d rather come in for my, uh, appointments.”

“Okay, no problem. I’ll put a note on your chart.”

“Thanks, Laura.”

He hangs up, and _doesn’t think_ about what, exactly, happened the last time he had Peter in his dorm room.

***

The next appointment, he tries again. He lies back on the table, bare from the waist down, with his feet propped in the stirrups. Because stirrups are incapable of being sexy.

Unfortunately, with him on his back, it just means that Peter has all the access he could ever want, and he uses it—shouldering his way between Stiles’s thighs to finger him open while slurping and suckling at his clit. When Stiles is a shivery, boneless heap, Peter slips his cock in, hips rolling leisurely as he sucks kisses along Stiles’s throat and strokes big hands over everything he can reach—up Stiles’s chest and down along trembling thighs until he knots. Then, it’s all clever fingers massaging at his clit until he comes helplessly, arching up into the bulk of Peter’s body.

Stiles cries after, as they lay there tied, waiting for Peter’s knot to go down, because he should hate it but he doesn’t, and he thinks that might make him hate himself.

***

He tries again the appointment after that, scheduling it for when he’s just been diagnosed with a yeast infection and taken the first round of suppository medication—administered on his own, and he never thought he’d be so grateful, but the blame for that lies solely with Peter.

“An oral dose,” Peter half-states, half-asks when he’s told, looking the most unamused Stiles has ever seen him.

He smiles sunnily in response. “Yeah, I wound up with a yeast infection—clinic doc said it was probably from all the sex, I’m on meds for the rest of the week.”

“I see.” Peter gives him a narrow-eyed glare that says he’s mentally wondering why Stiles wouldn’t book for a better time, but doesn’t ask—they both know it’s been the better part of a week since Stiles’s last session, and waiting another couple days for the infection to clear enough for vaginal knotting to be practical would put him in danger of withdrawal.

Instead, Peter has him sit on a little footstool, with his back against the wall, before cupping his face and murmuring, “Open,” in a dangerously silky voice. Stiles knows Peter’s not happy about this, so he doesn’t fight—just opens his mouth obediently and lets Peter feed his cock inside.

Peter’s hands settle on either side of his face, thumbs pressing firmly into the hinge of his jaw, holding him steady and forcing his mouth open as more and more alpha cock is slid inside. “Now suck,” Peter orders. 

And, because Peter’s leaking bitter pre-come, coating his mouth with alpha pheromones that are absorbed readily by delicate tissues, making heat gather low in his belly and fog his mind even though there’s no way he’s going to come, he obeys. The fact that Peter could easily force him, with his back against the wall and those strong hands wrapped around his face, also plays a part.

So he rubs his tongue against the silky skin of Peter’s cock, sucking and slurping as best he can when he’s never done this before—at least, not of his own free will—because it means getting this over with faster.

It’s not until Peter starts panting and thrusting, forcing himself just into Stiles’s throat, clearly on the cusp of coming, that a spike of fear slithers into Stiles’s belly, because they never discussed where Peter would knot. He just assumed that the knot would stay outside his teeth, because that was what they’d discussed before his heat, but Peter never actually said. He whines, bracing his hands on Peter’s hips and pushing, but not succeeding in making him back off.

“Easy, pet,” Peter rumbles. “I’m close, you’re almost there.”

Stiles whines desperately as the thick swell of Peter’s burgeoning knot pushes past his lips, fighting the urge to cough as the head slides down his throat. He gags, but it only seems to spur Peter on, his hands sliding round to the back of Stiles’s head, pulling him in to meet every snap of Peter’s hips. Hot tears slick his cheeks at the rough usage that seems like it goes on forever, but frighteningly soon Peter’s pulling his face flush against spasming abs as orgasm hits, his knot expanding and locking behind Stiles’s teeth.

It feels huge in his mouth, his jaw stretched painfully wide, throat fluttering madly around the thick flesh filling it. It would be terrifying if the come Peter’s pumping down his throat wasn’t triggering a rush of endorphins that are making everything soft-edged and hazy, but even they aren’t enough to make Stiles forget that this isn’t right. They didn’t—he didn’t want this.

But it definitely feels good, to have Peter’s fingers gently carding through his hair, murmuring about how he’s a good boy, drinking his alpha down so well. He tries to swallow, at that, and it earns him a fond chuckle. When the knot finally goes down, his mouth feels ruined—jaw aching, lips raw—but Peter just pulls him to his feet, kissing softly as he slots a thigh between Stiles’s, letting him ride it until he comes panting against Peter’s shoulder.

***

Later that night, once he’s lucid, he massages his jaw as furious tears leak down his cheeks, enraged at the fact that Peter won’t let him walk away from an appointment without coming, that he’s so insanely determined to make Stiles an active participant in this shitshow.

Once the tears have run out, though, Stiles decides it’s time for a new strategy—he’s not giving up on taking control back. Not yet. Not this easily. But he definitely needs a new plan.

***

He has some ideas, but needs to know more. He starts by seeing how long it takes for the withdrawals to hit. Unfortunately, he can’t seem to go longer than a week before hitting the point where he has to cave and go see Peter.

But he’s decided that, this time, he’s going to push. Getting to day eight doesn’t feel like much of a victory, though, when his vision greys out and he almost falls over getting out of bed. He sits back down and breathes, nice and slow, until he feels steadier, and decides that water is the first step today. Being dehydrated is a bad time.

Only, drinking a bottle of water doesn’t help much, and neither does eating something nice and easy. When the shakes start, he wraps up in a blanket and tries to tell himself that it’s from cold and nothing else, but when the back of his head starts to throb he admits defeat. He grabs his phone off his nightstand and calls OS.

“Berkeley’s Omega Services Centre, Jennifer speaking, how can I help you?”

“Hi Jen,” he rasps. “It’s Stiles.”

There’s a pause, and when she speaks again, she’s all motherly concern. “Stiles? You don’t sound good. You okay?”

It gets to him, a little bit, and his eyes prickle. “I, uh. I need to know if there’s an R.A. on-call today who can come and—see me. At my dorm.”

Another pause. Longer, this time, and he knows it’s because he’s declined their house call service since his episode of synth-rejection and the accompanying pseudo-heat. “Stiles, I will make sure that an R.A. gets sent to you right away, but I need you to tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing.” Her voice is the kind of calm you only hear from nurses and people who work in emergency services.

He’s pretty sure that’s a bad sign. He clears his throat and mutters, “Feeling just overall shitty, mostly. Dizzy, shaky, headache.”

He hears the rapid clicking of her keyboard, and then, “Are you chilled or feverish, and have you fainted or otherwise lost consciousness?”

“Bit cold, I guess. I wrapped up in a blanket.” More keyboard-clicky. He hesitates, but then admits, “Vision went all wonky and I felt like I might pass out earlier, but. No actual fainting.”

“Okay. I’m going to put you on hold, and go see which of our two weekend R.A.s can come help you out. As soon as I’ve assigned your case, I’ll came back and let you know when to expect them, okay?”

“’Kay.”

He thinks he dozes, a little, because he startles when he hears her voice in his ear again. “Stiles, I’m so sorry, but the only person we can send for the next few hours is Duke.”

“What? Why?” His heart starts to pound as he thinks about it, as he remembers what his consult with the guy was like.

“Because our other weekend R.A. is Alan Deaton, and he’s got appointments for the next few hours. Duke is the only one who’s free. I know you said you didn’t want to see him, but I don’t think making you wait a minimum of another three hours is a good idea, here.”

Resignation—cold and slimy like liquid concrete—fills his guts, but he knows she’s right. “Okay.”

Jen pauses. “Okay, I can send him over? Or okay, you’d rather not see him and I’ll call you an ambulance?”

That might be the only thing higher on his Hell No list. “Send—send Duke,” he whispers. “I’ll get it over with.”

“Okay, honey. He’ll be there soon. It’ll be okay.”

Stiles scrunches his eyes shut against the tears that are welling up. “Thanks, Jen.”

And then there’s nothing to do but wait. He drifts back off again, and wakes to the sound of his door being unlocked. It makes panic spike for a moment, before he recognizes the voices—Duke’s accent is unmistakable, and the annoyingly chipper sound of the senior resident assuring them both—along with everyone else in earshot, Stiles is sure—that she’s happy to help if anyone needs anything.

The door closes, and the deadbolt flips, and Stiles wonders if playing dead is a viable strategy. “Are you awake, Stiles?”

Well, there goes that strategy.

“Yeah,” he rasps.

“I’m going to come over and check how you’re doing, hmm?”

He hums an affirmative, and tries to ignore his heart hammering in his chest. He can totally pretend he’s not metaphorically pissing his pants.

But when Duke reaches his bedside, the only thing that happens is the gentle press of fingertips to the side of throat. A moment later, Duke softly asks, “Can you squeeze my fingers for me?” and hums when Stiles tries.

“You’re having withdrawals, but I expect you knew that. What I don’t understand is why you let it get this severe.”

Well, Stiles will hand it to the dude—he’s direct. “Didn’t wanna be coming in all the time,” he mumbles.

“Mmhmm. And I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that Peter’s been,” there’s a pause, but whatever the R.A. was going to say gets exchanged for, “ _Peter_.”

Stiles doesn’t answer that, because he’s pretty sure it’s a trap.

Lucky for him, Duke doesn’t seem to expect an answer anyways. “I’ll go out on a limb and guess you’re feeling about as receptive as a padlocked door at the moment.”

It takes him a moment to parse what the guy means, but once he does, Stiles blushes a little. “Pretty much?”

“I’m not surprised. Any penetration below the belt is out, then, which just leaves us the oral option, unless you’ve another suggestion.”

He shakes his head, because no, not really. But his last session with Peter flashes through his mind, and his jaw throbs at the memory. “Can you, uh. Knot outside my teeth? I don’t, I’m not—”

Duke makes a vaguely reassuring noise as he tugs the blanket down a little, fully exposing Stiles’s face and adjusting the angle of his neck and head. “I understand. Today isn’t the day to be trying for anything adventurous. Right then,” he stands up, and unzips his slacks. “Let’s get you feeling better.”

And then there’s a cock being fed between his lips and a hand cupping the back of his neck, and he worries, because the last time—he was in this position or the last time he was dealing with Duke, take your pick—was a Bad Time, but he’s not told to suck, or to open up for it, he’s not called “darling” or “sweetheart”. In fact, Duke doesn’t speak to him at all—just rocks back and forth, dragging his cock across Stiles’s tongue and working the rest of it with his other hand. He never goes deep, never so much as nudges the back of Stiles’s throat, and Stiles—doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, here, so he doesn’t do anything.

He doesn’t get a warning when Duke’s knot starts to swell, but the way the British R.A.’s fingers are squeezing around the base of his cock, and the pre-come trickling down his throat are pretty blatant clues. He chokes a little, when Duke starts coming, because it happens so fast. The hand at the back of his neck doesn’t let him pull away to cough, but before he can panic, Duke’s other hand moves to start stroking his throat, coaxing him to swallow.

It takes a minute, but Stiles realizes there’s a rhythm to it, and once he catches on, Duke’s hand goes back to milking his knot. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but it’s long enough that discomfort starts to creep in. Not for any physical reasons—he’s probably the _most_ physically comfortable he’s ever been for one of these sessions, which almost makes it worse, somehow—but because all of it feels so incredibly detached. It’s like he not even here.

By the time Duke decides he’s finished, Stiles thinks he feels worse than before they started, even if his shakes and throbbing headache are subsiding. He pants, trying to catch his breath, and waits to see what happens now. He half-expects Duke to touch him, or tell Stiles to touch himself, but he doesn’t do either of those things.

He just tucks himself back into his slacks, and does them back up before saying, “That should do, but if you’re not feeling more or less back on your feet in an hour or so, call Jen at the OSC and she’ll send me back over to check in on you, alright?”

“Alright,” Stiles repeats dumbly, confused and, somehow, feeling hollow and the slightest bit numb.

***

The hollow-numb feeling doesn’t go away until the next day. Which would be great, except mood swings and a big stupid crying fit replace it. He tries to ride it out, but he’s just—miserable. After three days, he gives up, and calls OS when he’s between classes on Wednesday, and books in with Peter for Friday. It’s another house call, and he’s not happy about that, or the wait, but it’s the earliest Peter can see him, so he’ll cope. Just as long as he doesn’t have to feel like this anymore.

The rest of Wednesday drags, and so does Thursday, but he gets through because he knows that, as much as he hates it, he’ll feel better soon. Peter will make it better.

He doesn’t bother to hide how relieved he is when he opens his dorm room door for Peter early Friday afternoon. “Hey.”

It gets him a raised eyebrow, and Peter steps inside slowly. “I saw that you had an emergency appointment on Sunday. Everything alright, sweetheart?”

He squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head, because no, everything is _not_ okay, and he hates it, and he doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and not only because he doesn’t think he has the words to explain.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m here,” Peter murmurs, and then his hands are sliding around Stiles’s shoulders and up his neck, tilting his head down and guiding him into a kiss.

He doesn’t fight it, lets Peter push his flannel down his arms and kiss him gently, and whines when their mouths part so Peter can pull his tee-shirt off over his head. But then Peter’s shucking his own jacket and Henley, and pulling him close to kiss him again, and Stiles gasps at the feeling of all that bare skin against his own. Peter takes advantage of his parted lips to slip his tongue between them, and Stiles whimpers and gets wet as he lets Peter lick inside his mouth, teasing the sensitive skin of Stiles’s lips with the tip of his tongue.

But he’s the one who grabs Peter by the hips and pulls them backward toward his bed. He’s sick and tired of feeling like garbage, so he can hate himself for being needy later. Right now, getting Peter naked and knotted inside him is the bit that matters.

Peter, for his part, definitely notices, but doesn’t comment. Not on that, at least. He just strips them both efficiently, and guides them down onto the bed. But once they’re there, Stiles doesn’t mind the murmured, “That’s my good boy, nice and wet for your alpha,” against his neck as Peter’s thick fingers play with his entrance, petting and teasing between his folds before one sinks inside.

He moans, arching, and doesn’t realize he’s whimpering, “More, please, more, gimme,” until Peter shushes him.

“Easy, sweetheart. I’ve got you, I’ll give you what you need.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes closed, because suddenly, he’s crying, but not because he’s sad, exactly, and he will scream if Peter stops, but because _this_ , he realizes, is what he was missing. He wanted _this_ —to be touched and talked to and praised, kissed and fucked knowing that he’ll come, that it’s something his R.A. is doing _with_ him instead of _to_ him, and he doesn’t _want_ to want this, but—he _does_ , is the problem.

That train of thought is knocked straight out of his head when he feels the tip of Peter’s cock rub up against his cunt. “Yeah?” he rasps. It’s quick, he’s pretty sure that Peter usually drags this out for longer, but he’s not going to complain about a faster pace. Not today.

Peter leans down to press a kiss to his lips. “Yeah, sweet boy. I’m not going to make you wait.”

And then he doesn’t, slipping in-in-in until he’s buried to the hilt, and Stiles’s back arches at the delicious fullness. Peter gives him a moment to adjust, hands stroking over his skin, and, when Stiles rolls his hip up, takes the hint and starts to move. It’s good, it’s so good, and Stiles worms a hand between their bellies to rub at his clit so that it’s _better_.

Peter notices, and groans, hips snapping faster as the base of his cock starts to swell. “Yeah, just like that, baby.” And then he’s grinding deep, knot expanding to tie them, and Stiles is whining, high-pitched and needy, rubbing his clit frantically but it’s not _enough_ , somehow, to make him come.

Peter pants against his throat, hands pushing under him to splay against his back, and then they’re moving, suddenly, as Peter hauls him upright so he’s straddling Peter’s lap, knot sinking deeper, somehow. Peter’s hand drops to his hips, and they start rocking him, moving him over the knot, and his head drops back because they’ve never done it like this and the pressure and angle is amazing, the feeling of Peter mouthing and sucking at his throat sending pleasure sparking through his bloodstream.

He comes like that, shaking and held by Peter’s hands, arms, thighs, with Peter’s teeth on his throat and his hands tangled in the alpha’s hair. He goes boneless, after, panting against Peter’s shoulder and letting him lie them back down gratefully. Peter stays close in the aftermath, brushing little kisses across his mouth and skating those big, warm hands up and down his back and sides.

“I’ll always give you what you need, baby, you just have to let me.”

And Stiles hums, because he knows, and he wants to _let_ Peter, which is the problem.

 _But_ , he thinks, as he lays there floating in the pheromone haze, _maybe it doesn’t have to be_. It’s just three more months until he’s done his first year at Berkeley, and then he’ll be home for the summer, with three whole months to figure out how he wants to handle this shit next year. If he’s seeing Peter once a week—not including the heat week that’s coming up later this month—it’ll be about eleven or twelve appointments. If he thinks of it that way, and counts it down in his head, he can probably do this.

He can let Peter take care of him eleven or twelve more times, and figure out what he wants once he’s back home and away from Peter and everything at Berkeley that made him necessary.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are! Second half of this story, and the conclusion to the series. 
> 
> Beware, lovelies. And Happy Friday. <3

Stiles packed up everything he possibly could on Thursday night, knowing Dam was coming the next day. But even doing that, there’s still stuff to do like stripping the bed, and taking out the garbage, sweeping the room and student lounges for any of his belongings that might’ve travelled, and a hundred other tiny, last-minute things. He moves as fast as he can, and is nearly finished by noon, when he’s surprised by an all-too familiar voice saying, “You weren’t even going to come say goodbye to me, sweetheart? I’m hurt.”

Stiles’s head snaps up and his heart starts beating a panicked tattoo against his ribs at the sight of Peter leaning casually against the jamb of his open dorm room door.

“There something else you need to do, kiddo?” Dam asks, a worried crease appearing between his eyebrows.

Peter glances briefly in Dam’s direction, eyebrows raised, before pinning Stiles with a thousand-yard stare. “It’s Friday.” He doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t really need to. Friday is for house calls, which Stiles has been having for most of the second semester. The fact is, he probably looks like he was trying to pack up and shove out before Peter arrived.

Unfortunately, that’s also the truth, and Stiles didn’t exactly prepare a contingency plan. “I thought you were in the office ‘til two?”

Peter nods. “Usually I am, but there’s no appointments booked for today, and there’s two other R.A.s on-call if a student has some kind of emergency, so I thought I’d come by and do your house call early.”

Well, shit. Now he’s got Dam eyeing him off like he’s trying to pull a fast one. (He _is_ , but that’s not the point.) He swallows, knowing he’s been backed into a corner—if he tries to argue about seeing Peter, Dam will want to know why, and that’s not a conversation he’s ready to have right now. “I, uh. Actually figured I’d pop by the office, spare you the trip. It’s why I was trying to get everything done here—thought there was a limited window where you’d be at the OS Centre.”

Peter’s expression clears, and he gives that slick, charming smile Stiles has come to be deeply suspicious of. “Well, in that case, why don’t I help you and your Dam load your vehicle, and then he can go get lunch while you come back with me to the clinic so you can have your final treatment of the academic year?”

He wants to say no. Fuck, but he wants to refuse. This is why he was hoping to get out of the dorms this morning, before Peter’s house call hours started. He still has the extra doses of synths from Christmas break—he was gonna take those once he was back home while he waited for an appointment with his gyno, so that the withdrawals didn’t force him to deal with Peter, or any other R.A. for that matter.

He quietly kisses that plan goodbye, and resigns himself to what he knows is gonna happen. “Uh, should be alright? Dam?”

He looks at his dam, who’s got a calculating look on his face. “You know what, kid? I think I’d rather you go with Peter right now, and let me finish up here.”

“But, it’s all pretty—”

“Kid, I’m more than healthy enough to cart the rest of your crap down to the car. Go take care of your health—I’ll come get you in an hour or so.”

And then there’s nothing to do but nod and let Peter lead him away.

***

He doesn’t speak until they’re in one of the heat suites, and even then, it’s only to mutter, “Let’s get this over with,” as he starts peeling out of his clothes.

Peter tuts, cupping his chin and tipping his face up. “Now, now, sweetheart. There’s no need to be like that.”

“Like what?”

The fingers slide down his throat, skimming down his torso to twist in the hem of his shirt. “Ashamed,” Peter murmurs, pulling the shirt over Stiles’s head. “Your dam won’t think less of you for needing what you need—he hasn’t until now, after all.”

It’s too true in all wrong ways, but it’s the perfect cover for why he’s out of sorts. “I guess.”

Peter hums, sliding in close to kiss and nip at his bare throat. “Should I assume that you need a little help to get going?”

Stiles gives a breathy “uh huh,” because he’s not exactly in the mood, but Peter doesn’t bother to wait for confirmation—sliding one hand down the back of Stiles’s jeans to cup and knead at his ass, even as more sucking kisses are pressed to his throat. Peter hasn’t done more than take off his shoes, and there’s something about being half-naked and pressed up against an alpha who’s still fully dressed that’s doing it for him.

Of course, Peter’s muttered, “Get on the bed for me—you’re always more receptive after I’ve had my tongue in your cunt,” also does it for him, because Peter’s a dirty-talking bastard who really does have an amazing tongue.

So Stiles skins out of his jeans and underwear, and sprawls out on the bed, mostly unselfconscious, because at this point, Peter’s seen it all and in worse condition than this. He spreads his legs, and it’s—heady, in a way, to see those blue eyes stare hungrily at his groin as Peter casually pulls off his shirt before crawling up the bed to settle between Stiles’s thighs.

The first touch of tongue is light, teasing—a little lick at the outer lips before darting away again. The next few are the same, until Stiles cants his hips up, wanting more. Then, Peter chuckles, but pulls him open, just a little, with both thumbs, and starts to lap more firmly. It’s amazing, the pressure just right, and Stiles knows some of it is the alpha pheromones in Peter’s saliva, but mostly it’s the slick heat of Peter’s mouth and clever tongue making him wet.

Said tongue pushing inside is enough to make him squeal. He’s slick and opening up, now, and as good as it feels, it’s nowhere near big enough or firm enough to be satisfying. Peter’s hands move to his hips, splaying wide to hold him down as that evil-perfect tongue spears inside him ten, twelve more times, only stopping when he’s a whining, needy mess.

He has to bite back a curse when Peter pulls away—it’s only seeing the alpha flick open the button and zip of his own jeans that makes him bite his tongue. Because if Peter’s getting naked, that means Stiles is about to get dick, and he’s not only that much closer to orgasm, he’s also closer to getting the hell out of here and away from this asshole.

“How d’you want to do this?” he asks, because Peter sometimes gets particular. He’s not sure why, if it’s to do with him or other clients or something else entirely.

Peter looks at him with lust-dark eyes. “In my lap, this time.”

Stiles swallows, but nods. It’s not quite true to say he doesn’t like that way—because he does, it feels incredible, grinds Peter’s fuck-off huge knot against his g-spot in a way that gives him blackout orgasms—but he hates the intimacy of it, the way it leaves them face-to-face and gives Peter access to his mouth, neck, chest, nipples. Access Peter always takes advantage of.

Still, he crawls into Peter’s lap when the alpha settles on the bed, a pillow between his back and the wall. He lets his knees slide against Peter’s hips, rests his hands on the broad shoulders to brace himself as Peter holds his dick steady for Stiles to lower himself on.

And he does.

His chin tips up as the head pops in, a low groan escaping as he sinks down inch by inch onto this fucking bastard’s absolutely magnificent cock. If he could take the cock and leave the alpha, he would. As it is, he lets Peter’s hands settle on his hips, guiding the rhythm as he starts to roll and grind, too tired for more athletic riding. If Peter wants something more energetic, he can flip them and do the work himself.

But it seems that Peter’s fine with the pace, given that he murmurs, “That’s it, baby, nice and easy, take what you need.”

Stiles closes his eyes and bites his bottom lip, trying not to hear and focus just on what he’s feeling, to let the way he’s being filled up send sparks up his spine and gather heat in his pelvis as he rocks and reaches down to rub at his clit with one hand. He’s not expecting it when Peter’s hands move from his hips to his ass, dragging him harder down onto Peter’s cock, and he lets out a moan at the sudden thrust. From there, Peter moves him like a doll as he touches himself and clings to Peter with his other hand, all while being worked over Peter’s slowly-filling knot.

Stiles pants, feeling his legs start to tremble as he gets close, as Peter’s mouth closes around the arch of his throat, teeth sinking into flesh and sucking until the hot sting of broken blood vessels makes him clench around Peter’s nearly-full knot. As he does, Peter pulls his mouth away to whisper, “That’s it, sweetheart, come around me and milk my knot. You know you need it.”

And he hates that it tips him over the edge, but it does—he comes with his breath stuttering and his cunt squeezing Peter’s knot for all its worth. Peter groans as they tie, his knot fully expanded and locked, Stiles’s pelvic girdle clamped down tight to hold him there, and the first hot gush of alpha come inside his body makes him shudder so hard he’d have fallen off the bed and hurt them both if not for Peter’s grip on him.

He slumps against Peter’s chest, panting into his shoulder as the pheromone haze takes him, his hips making little hitching motions, grinding the knot against his g-spot even though he’s still riding the edge of too-much from his orgasm.

Stiles can’t help his whine when Peter fists his hair, dragging his head up for a rough kiss. He can’t do anything but let Peter’s tongue plunder his mouth and fingers pinch and roll his nipples and hips corkscrew him deeper onto the knot even though there’s nowhere to go, Peter’s already as deep as it gets.

“Touch yourself,” Peter growls, and Stiles—he doesn’t understand.

“What? But—I came?”

Peter’s hips give a sharp little thrust, and given the way they’re tied, it’s—it’s intense, it _almost_ hurts, but only almost. He clenches reflexively, and it makes want start to throb in his veins again—harder, this time, because it never really had a chance to die down. “You’re going to come again for me.”

And uh, yeah, shit, he probably is, but—“Why?” he asks, fingers already dancing over his clit, because it’s either that or die of sexual frustration.

Peter’s voice is dark and ragged in his ear. “Open wide for your alpha’s come, baby—you need to let it in deep so you have enough inside you when you leave.”

And, well, Stiles can’t exactly argue with that, and he doesn’t want to, not really, not when Peter’s hands and mouth and knot feel incredible, when freedom is on the horizon, so he goes with it, touches himself and offers up his neck and shoulder for Peter to bite, lets Peter all but fuck him with the knot lodged so deep Stiles can feel it in his lungs.

His second orgasm leaves him even more dazed than the first, drifting further in the ‘mone haze. He loses time, cuddled up against Peter and heaving in shuddery breaths, lulled by the stroke of hands up and down his back. He vaguely registers Peter moving them, lying them on their sides, and, a little while—a long while, maybe?—later, the knot going down and Peter sliding free. He whines a little, then—it’s a reflex, the empty feeling unpleasant after fullness and heat and connection.

But then Peter’s coaxing his mouth open, and Stiles realizes that’s Peter’s cock being slid into his mouth. He’d complain, but the musky-bitter electricity of their combined come fills his mouth, and a low buzzing fills his thoughts. Some part of him is distantly satisfied.

Peter’s cock disappears from his mouth, and he’d whine about it, but two fingers push inside before he can, also coated in their come. He suckles, a little petulant, and Peter chuckles. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart. Your dam will be here to get you soon, and you wouldn’t want to greet him still hanging off my knot, would you?”

He whines, because no, but also, he wasn’t done with that.

And then the fingers disappear, too, and there’s a push between his legs, and he sighs, going limp as something thick and heavy fills him up.

“You like that, hmm?”

Stiles hums something vaguely affirmative.

“Thought you might,” Peter murmurs. “A nice plug, so you don’t lose all that feelgood juice I was just nice enough to give you.” He pushes against it, and Stiles whines, because it feels good, but it’s a lot— _too much_ , now. “Alright, darling. I’ll leave it alone.”

Peter shifts away then, but doesn’t go far—he cleans up in the bathroom, and then pulls his clothes back on. Once dressed, he starts getting Stiles back into his clothes. Stiles lets him. The attention feels nice, and he’s still a post-orgasmic puddle. He whines when Peter makes him sit up, causing the plug to shift inside him and push against his tender insides, lighting up nerves that haven’t quite stopped firing.

He has to lean on Peter, letting the alpha take most of his weight as they shuffle out towards the reception desk. He keeps his eyes closed, nuzzled in against Peter’s neck

“Stiles? Are you okay?”

Oh, Dam’s here. He hums a yes, but. He’s tired, and worn out, and words are hard. He just wants to nap.

“He’s alright, John, promise. He’s just affected by the intensity of the session we had. I wanted to make sure he was going to handle going back alright,” Peter explains.

Dam makes a skeptical noise. “I mean, his meds have never had him like this, though. What the hell dose did you give him?”

Stiles stirs at that—something about it isn’t right—but the hand Peter has at his lower back presses him closer, grinding the base of the plug against Peter’s hip and making him shudder and pant with aftershocks.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Dam snaps, worried.

He grumbles at that, but Peter hushes him, rocking Stiles against his hip again. “Back at the start of the new year, he had a bad reaction to the synths. Triggered a pseudo-heat. We had to wean him off them, switch him over to organics.”

There’s a pause, and then Dam asks, “He’s okay, though, right?”

Peter chuckles, and Stiles can hear the grin. “He’s better than just okay, now, John. His grades went up, all his blood work and test results are better than they’ve ever been. It’s all here, in his updated file.”

There’s the sound of something being slid across the reception desk, and Stiles forces his bleary eyes open to see that it’s his medical file. Dam’s flicking through it, relief washing over his face. “Oh my God. I never—he was always so stubborn, never wanted to even consider anything but the synthetics. I’m so glad he’s on something better for him, now. Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s no problem—just doing my job.” Peter reaches out to shake Dam’s hand.

Dam shakes it easily. “You’ve done what no one else managed, with my kid. That’s nothing to sneeze at.” And then Dam sighs. “I don’t know what we’re going to do back home, though, not if he can’t take the synthetics anymore.”

Peter makes a thoughtful noise, hitching Stiles higher up his hip, taking more of his weight. It also forces the plug deeper, and Stiles whimpers as his overworked cunt flutters and squeezes, triggering a fresh round of haze. “You know, John, I’m only part-time at the college here.”

“Oh?”

“I have a private practise, and it’d be no trouble at all to keep attending your boy over the summer break.”

Dam nods. “Yeah, yeah I think that’d be good for him. Gimme your number, and I’ll look into it with the insurance and his other healthcare team. Though, I’ll be honest with you—most of them will probably be on your side, here. They’ve been trying to get him to switch, or even go hybrid for years now.”

Peter moves them, and his one hand scribbles something on a sticky note that he peels off and passes to Dam. “That’s the number for my private clinic. Insurance will cover it—if yours won’t, then his student one will, because he was referred through Berkeley’s clinic.”

“Yeah, in that case, I’ll give you a call when we get home, set up an appointment.”

“Sounds good. Which way to your car? I’ll pour him into it for you.”

Dam chuckles. “I’d appreciate that. I’m parked just across the street.”

Stiles whines when he’s tucked into the back seat, but is hushed as Peter buckles him in—and pushes rhythmically against the base of the plug, once, twice, thrice, and then Stiles’s head is lolling back as the haze drags him under.

***

By the time his first summer appointment rolls around, Stiles is both sick as hell from withdrawals because it’s been ten days and Dam threw out the leftover synth doses, and fucking furious. His gyno was firm—because he had a bad reaction to the synths, his choices are “Peter, or another R.A.”, and since he remembers, all too vividly, how his attempt at another R.A turned out, and Dam wants him to keep seeing Peter, to Peter he fucking goes. His dam has to drive him to the appointment because he’s too sick to get there himself, and he doesn’t actually know where Peter’s private clinic is.

Worst of all, Dam’s insisted that he stay the night, because of how bad off he is right now, and also because Dam’s got an overnight at the station and doesn’t want him to be alone. He’d argued that he could take a taxi back after, but no dice.

He’d have fought about it more probably, but needing his dam to half-carry him up the steps of the porch round the back of the older, Victorian-style house makes it kinda futile. Peter answers the door himself, dressed in a soft black V-neck and a pair of sweatpants.

“Very professional,” Stiles snarks, because all of this is Peter’s fault.

Peter just quirks an eyebrow and says, “You’re my only appointment for this evening, so,” leaving the ‘ _I don’t need real clothes when I’m just going to be naked and balls deep in you_ ’ unsaid in front of his Dam, which is probably smart.

“You sure you’ll be alright with him?” Dam asks. Stiles knows why he’s not being asked—he made his opinion very clear in the last week what he thought of this plan.

“I’ll take good care of him, John, I promise.”

Stiles hates what that means—and that Peter means it.

“Alright. Then I’ll hand him off to you, and come back after my shift ends at eight to come get him.”

“Of course.”

And then Dam unloops his arm from around beloved shoulders to press him into Peter’s waiting arms. Peter closes the door and Stiles watches through the window as his Dam gets back into the car and drives away. Then—“What the _fuck_ , Peter?”

The alpha hums, swinging him up into a bridal carry and moving down the hallway to the converted treatment room. “I need you to be a touch more specific, darling.”

He’s set down, and he tries to shove Peter away, but he’s got the strength of a week-old kitten right now. “Why, exactly, did you make me go ten days between appointments after being downright _anal_ about making sure I wasn’t going too long, huh? Back at Berkeley, you would’ve creamed your pants if I let you knot me twice a week.”

Peter tuts at him like he’s a child, hands moving to undress him, heedless of the way he tries to bat them away. “You may not appreciate my talents as a Registered Alpha, darling, but several others do, and I had to catch up with certain patients and a lot of paperwork. Now,” he shoves Stiles backwards, and has his jeans and underwear down around his ankles a moment later, “we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Up to you. But, since you are my patient and in my care for the next twelve hours or so, I will be administering an adequate dose of pheromones for the sake of your health.”

Stiles sputters. “Easy? _Easy_!? Nothing about dealing with you has been easy!”

Peter’s eyes narrow, and he finishes peeling Stiles out of his clothes before pinning him flat against the bed with one hand splayed over his chest. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says lightly, eyes ravenous. “You were my sweet, good boy for a few weeks, there, letting me make you feel good and taking it like you were made to. I’m sure that good, sweet boy is still in there somewhere.”

The “Fuck off,” that comes bubbling out is unplanned, and all the more vicious for it.

But Peter doesn’t react beyond clucking his tongue like a disappointed kindergarten teacher. “Hard way it is, then. I shouldn’t be surprised—that’s how you seem to like to do this. But no matter. I’ll get my good boy back.”

Stiles struggles as he’s hauled up the bed, but the withdrawals are kicking his ass, and he’s a young, nerdy omega who warmed the lacrosse bench—even at full strength, he’s no match for Peter. His wrists are gripped tight and pulled over his head, and then bound in place with Velcro cuffs. He tugs at them, pulling, but his hands are too far apart to undo the Velcro, and these are too well-made to give under his less-than-best efforts.

And then Peter’s back, fingers forcing his mouth open and wedging a spider gag inside. “Right. Since your mouth is your favourite way of getting into trouble, let’s take away that particular avenue of bad behaviour, hmm?”

Stiles gives an angry, wordless grunt as the gag is buckled into place.

“It’s sad, really. There could have been kisses. But maybe my sweet boy will come out and decide he wants some later. In the meantime,” Peter pauses, and strips out of his clothes. Apparently, there wasn’t anything under the sweatpants.

Peter’s cock is already hard, and when he gets on the bed, he straddles Stiles’s chest. “Alright, sweetheart, here we go,” he murmurs, guiding the tip into Stiles’s mouth through the ring of the gag, push-dragging it across his tongue. “Let’s get you on the road to feeling better, get a little alpha goodness in you.”

It doesn’t take long before Peter starts to leak, pre-come bursting bitter and thin across his tongue, and with it, tension starts going out of his body as the pheromones his fucked up biology craves hit him. He moans around the gag and the flesh sliding smoothly inside his mouth, and Peter chuckles. “Yeah, baby, knew you’d like that. Wanted you to get a little taste of me so you’ll be good for me, already starting to get wet when I get between those gorgeous thighs.”

Peter glides his leaking cock across Stiles’s tongue a while longer, only pulling back and moving down the bed when his entire mouth is coated in bitter-musky alpha pheromones. But Peter doesn’t go where Stiles expected him to—doesn’t slide down-down-down to push his legs apart and start thrusting. Instead, he lays his dense, muscle-bound body atop Stiles as he licks and nibbles and sucks his way across Stiles’s chest, paying a lot of attention to his nipples.

He hates it, but it’s making him wet. He can feel it—can feel the wet, needy ache that won’t be soothed by anything but a cock, followed by a knot, and he wonders, vaguely, as lust sizzles through his bloodstream and starts eating away at rational thought, when, exactly, he turned into such a stereotypically needy, whorish omega.

He squirms, trying to relieve the building ache, trying to rut up against Peter even though he has no leverage. It catches Peter’s attention, because of course it does, and he chuckles. “I suppose I shouldn’t tease, hmm? Not right now. Not when you desperately need my knot in your hungry cunt, pumping you full of come.” He slides down, and his big hands guide Stiles’s thighs up and open.

Stiles doesn’t fight it. He couldn’t even if he tried, and as much as he wants to hate Peter right now, that doesn’t stop the bastard from being _right_. Gods fuck and damn him, but he _needs_ this, even though he never wanted to. He’s got a tear leaking from the corner of one eye and his mouth tastes like cock as he moans and rolls his hips up when Peter mouths between his legs, hot and hungry and suckling, tongue swirling around but never _touching_ his clit before sliding down to trace his tender inner lips, and then pushing—hot and slick and _not enough_ —right inside. 

His hips judder against Peter’s face, trying to force more out of the deliciously unsatisfying sensation, trying to make it be enough. But it isn’t, and it can’t be, because Peter won’t let it—flicking and moving his tongue in and out in barely-there motions. Stiles whines, because he just—he can’t take it, but there’s nothing he can do except throw his legs wider and jerk his hips up, offering Peter all the access he could ever want.

And Peter takes it, because of course he does—rising up onto his knees and sinking his stupidly perfect alpha cock straight inside him, and Stiles lets out a garbled noise at the way it fills up the aching empty. Peter starts to thrust, hard and fast, and Stiles arches his back, body rocking at the impact with every slap of Peter’s hips, bracing himself as best he can to meet and take every cruel thrust because as harsh as they are, they have the beginning of an orgasm gathering at the base of his spine.

As his breath hitches on the way Peter’s rapidly-filling knot is catching with every thrust, tipping him closer and closer to coming, Peter coos, “There’s my good boy. I knew he was in there.”

***

When Stiles limps out to Dam’s car in the morning, he’s sore and less angry than he thinks he should be. He came so many times his legs are tight and aching, and he needs to go home and soak in an Epsom salt bath to make his tender nethers stop stinging. He doesn’t remember exactly why they feel that way—Peter plugged him after that first knotting, keeping him hazed. It must have come out at some point over the night, because he didn’t wake up with it in, but whatever happened, he’d been fucked so loose that, this morning, during their final round, Peter stuffed a set of beads up his ass to tighten him back up for the bastard’s knot.

He’s still high on the pheromones, and he knows it, but at least he’s not completely lost to the haze—probably because Peter didn’t want to lose another plug, since Stiles sure as shit wouldn’t be bringing it back with him. You don’t return ammunition to the dude shooting at you. But once his hormones settle and he has a brain again, he needs to figure some shit out—and fast.

***

Stiles has not, unfortunately, figured out anything by his next appointment. Neither his family doc nor his gyno will prescribe him synths—not even a teensy lil daily oral dose, even though Deucalion said, way back in September, that it would be safe for him to go back on them if he took a knot through the academic year. He almost wishes, now, that he’d taken the guy up on the deal. His health and grades might be the best they’ve ever been, but Stiles privately feels it’s not worth what it took to get those results.

Unfortunately, with his legal avenues to synthetics cut off, he’s probably going to have to rely on organics one way or another. He doesn’t know anyone here in town who’ll provide them, but he might have to give dating a serious try this summer. That, or begin a really committed slutty phase.

But those are all long-term solutions, and he’s out of time. It’s been a week since Peter fucked him like an animal, and the withdrawals are starting again. It’s not as bad as last time, but the headache and muscle weakness, nausea and fatigue are bad enough. He assures Dam that he’ll be okay on the drive to Peter’s clinic and back, and gets in the Jeep. Dam’s still on nightshift, and will be at the station come midnight, when he’ll be expected home.

His heart pounds as he drives, because he’s not going to Peter’s.

He heads out of town, to someplace where everyone doesn’t look at him and automatically go “Sheriff’s kid”, and he tries to get into a bar or three. It doesn’t work. He can’t bring himself to go inside a strip club, but he hangs around outside, having heard enough stories to know a haze dealer will show up at some point.

Sure enough, one does, and Stiles convinces them to let him score. His heart is pounding in his throat the entire time and he feels like he’s gonna puke all over his shoes, but he has what he needs. He knows his Dam will never forgive him if he ever finds out about this, but all Stiles can feel is weak-kneed relief. He scuttles back to the Jeep with the little baggie in his pocket, tongue tingling from where he’d been encouraged to test the product, reassure himself he’d gotten what he paid for. That miniscule hit of synths is probably the only reason he doesn’t crash driving back to Beacon Hills, going a little under the speed limit the entire way there so he’s not pulled over when he can least afford to be. If it maybe also means that he turns into his neighbourhood a little after 11:30, when he knows Dam’s already left for work, that’s a bonus.

His heart stops when he goes to pull into his driveway, and his headlights catch on Peter, sitting on his front step and obviously waiting for him. This isn’t happening. It _can’t_ be happening.

He’s frozen for a handful of seconds that feels like they happen in slow-mo, terrified out of his mind, before he pulls into the driveway, parking robotically. He shuts the Jeep off and just—sits there, gripping the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white, staring sightlessly into his lap and trying not to spiral into a panic attack. He’s vaguely aware of Peter moving closer, and he shuts his eyes, waiting for the inevitable.

The tap-tap on his window feels like it happens underwater, and he refuses to move. Peter taps again, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut tighter, hands never budging from the steering wheel, feeling like he’s five years old again— _if I can’t see you, you can’t see me_.

He startles, head whipping around and eyes snapping open when he hears the passenger door. Peter folds himself into the seat and pulls the door shut, turning to face him. The porch light from the house slants across his features, making his features look sharp and his blue eyes glitter threateningly. “Get lost, did you?” he asks, tone deceptively light and airy.

Stiles’s gut fills with cold, heavy dread. Peter knows. “Something like that,” he rasps. Even if Peter does know, he’s not going to confess to anything. His Dam raised him smarter than that.

Peter hums noncommittedly. “Well, luckily I came to get you, then. Come on, then, into my car and we’ll get you sorted. I can even drop some crumbs on the ride over, so you can find your way next time.”

“I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you,” he says, lips numb and his pulse echoing in his ears. None of this feels quite real.

Peter’s lip curls into a snarl. “Allow me to rephrase, then. You can either voluntarily get into my car, and I will call your dam and tell him you’re spending the night with me, or,” his voice drops into a low, silky tone that makes the hairs on the back of Stiles’s neck stand on end, “I can inform him, and your other healthcare providers, that you are resisting treatment again, at which point you will only have two options: you will either be driven to and from your appointments with me, at my clinic, or I will exercise my privileges at Beacon Hills Memorial, and have you checked into a heat suite for me every week.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open as he starts to shake. He’s seen the heat suites at the hospital, knows that they’re locked from the outside, that there’s an observation window where anyone with clearance can look in and see what’s happening. It was shitty, but _tolerable_ , when he was being sedated for his heats. Being locked inside one with _Peter_ doesn’t bear thinking about.

“Your choice, Stiles, but you’ve already severely tested my patience tonight.” The smile Peter gives him is nasty. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He swallows, and it hurts, but there’s really only one choice, here. “I-I’ll come with you.”

Peter’s face doesn’t change, but his voice softens. “Give me your keys, and get out of the car.”

His hands tremble as he unbuckles, pulls his key out of the ignition, and drops it into Peter’s waiting palm before exiting the Jeep on legs he can’t feel. Peter gets out, locks up, and then circles around the hood to where he’s standing, arms wrapped around himself and fighting not to shake. He flinches when Peter grips the back of his neck, guiding him over to Peter’s car.

Before he can process what’s happening, he’s somehow half-sprawled across the backseat, jeans and underwear pulled down to his knees as Peter pushes something inside his cunt. “W-what is that?”

Peter’s hands and voice are brusque as he yanks Stiles’s clothing back up and into place. “A little insurance for me that you won’t try and pull another fast one tonight.” Peter pulls him upright and pushes him sideways, so his legs are inside the car, and then slams the door. The click of the child-lock engaging sounds gunshot-loud in the midnight silence.

He waits until Peter’s gone around and climbed into the driver’s seat to ask, “What does that mean?”

Peter meets his eyes in the mirror. “It means that, in ten minutes, when the omega pheromones hit your bloodstream, you’re going to be too busy begging for my knot to try throwing yourself out of a still-moving car.”

Blood rushes into Stiles’s cheeks, and one of his hands creeps down to his lap as Peter pulls out of the driveway and turns left. Before he can say or do anything else, Peter continues, “And don’t even think of trying to fish it out. The tablet is already halfway dissolved by now.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing he can say. Any attempt at defending himself is only going to make Peter madder, and that’s the last thing he needs right now. He tries to ignore the tickly burning sensation, and the slick gathering between his legs, but by the time they’re halfway to Peter’s clinic, he’s whimpering and rubbing himself through his jeans. He’s still coherent, it’s not a haze, probably not even as strong as what was used to induce his heat, but Peter was fucking right—he wants a knot so bad right now. He’d beg for it, if Peter wanted him to.

His whine of “Please?” slips out without him meaning to let it.

Peter hums, sounding much more like his usual self. “I think I’m going to write you a prescription for these quick-dissolve suppositories. Our sessions are going to go a lot smoother with a little something to turn your stubborn hide into a sweet little omega fuckhole for me.” Peter glances at him in the rearview mirror. “Will you be good for me and take your medicine before our sessions, or do I need to have a talk with your dam and get him to make sure you do?”

And Stiles, knowing that he’s well and truly lost—not just this battle, but the whole war—closes his eyes and covers his face with his hands as he half-sobs, “Yes, alpha,” because, if nothing else, it will make this part easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings:  
> Ch. 1: There is also a brief scene of Stiles/Deucalion that is sexual, but very clinical. This fic is not tagged for such, because I believe to do so would be false advertising to those seeking out Stalion fics, which this very much isn’t. Nor is Deucalion a bad guy here—the icky tags exclusively refer to Peter, this time. 
> 
> Ch. 2: There are some non-con elements in here with regard to medical treatment and biology that are a cross between prescription medication abuse and being drugged; Stiles is described as being in a “haze”, wherein he is pliant, and unable to think or react as he normally would, after Peter deliberately gives him a very high “dose” of his meds. 
> 
> Thanks for coming on this ride with me--I hope you enjoyed it! <3


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